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So perfect in its beauty—the bright tint, The flush of red, had marred its loveliness. So very fair, Giovanni? She is dead— Disconsolate, deserted, pity first Melted my youthful heart; then love's quick flame Arose. My father sternly had despoiled Her life of hope; I felt a generous wish To bid it bloom again. We fled away, And married— Married, my Giovanni? Why dost thou start, and turn away thy head, Struggling to quit my arms? I told thee, sweet, That she was dead. Oh! do not envy her The short brief gleam of sunshine that illumed Her cheerless life. Sailing along the deep,